Viscount Vagabond (11 page)

“—and this is Lynnette.”

Lord Browdie looked up from his musings to behold a shapely brunette wearing a great deal of paint, cheap jewelry, and a bizarrely demure peach-colored gown from whose narrow bodice her ample bosom threatened to burst any minute. The woman seemed vaguely familiar.

“Don’t I know you?” he asked a few minutes later as she led him upstairs.

“I don’t think so, sir,” she said, with a naughty grin. “I’d remember a handsome face like yours, I’m sure.”

If Lynnette might have had what she wished, she would have wished for a younger patron who was a tad more considerate. Being ambitious, however, and not overly fastidious, she left wishes to dreamy idealists. She had risen from the Covent Garden alleys to this house. It was not the best sort of house but it wasn’t the worst, either. At any rate, she would not remain longer than necessary. She meant to have an abode of her own, paid for by a wealthy gentleman, as would be the myriad gowns and jewels that
normally accompanied such transactions.

Being an astute judge of character, she knew what her customer wanted and proceeded to fulfill his fantasies. Lord Browdie, who was not overly generous, was sufficiently moved by the experience to offer a bit extra compensation. He promised to see her again very soon.

“Thought you looked familiar,” he said as she helped him on with his coat. “Now I know why. You’re the gal of my dreams, ain’t you, my lovely?”

Not until the next afternoon, in a rare interval of sobriety, did Lord Browdie realise that it hadn’t been the female who was familiar, but the gown. The experience of remembering a woman’s frock was so unusual that he actually puzzled over the matter for some minutes. Then his crony, Sir Reginald Aspinwal, appeared, the sober interval abruptly concluded, and Lord Browdie forgot all about frocks.

Catherine had adapted remarkably well to her new life, despite its obvious deficiencies. No one waited on her, willingly or otherwise. She dined simply in the workroom with either her fellow employees or Jemmy. She had neither fine clothes nor elegant accessories nor even the pin money to buy a single ribbon. On the other hand, she had not to cope with a drunken papa wreaking constant havoc with her attempts to keep the household in order, finding fault with everything she did and didn’t do, and making her feel— despite what reason told her—that she was worthless, unlikable, and ought never to have been born.

The other seamstresses seemed to accept her as one of themselves. Though Madame was inclined to be emotional and easily provoked by demanding customers, she indulged her aggerations in the solitude of her office. She treated her employees kindly, realising that good health and even tempers were as critical to the creation of exquisite finery as were quality fabrics, well-lit work areas, and carefully maintained tools.

Yes, she had been most fortunate to meet up with Jemmy that day, Catherine thought, as she watched the little boy who sat with her at the worktable. At present he was stabbing viciously with his stubby pencil at a grimy piece of foolscap.

If she had not met him, she’d be home now and utterly wretched. She would never marry Lord Browdie. Now, being unable to provide a respectable accounting of her disappearance, she could never marry at all.

Perhaps Aunt Deborah was worried about her. Perhaps even Papa was concerned. If so, their concern was mainly pride. If they’d truly cared about her, she would never have gotten into this fix in the first place. How could they possibly have expected her to give her property and person into the keeping of that odious man?

Good heavens, even her employer showed more compassion—and Jemmy seemed genuinely fond of her. He was so determined to please Miz Kaffy that he would drag out his foolscap and pencil the instant the other seamstresses rose to leave for the day. They were all gone now except Madame, who was in the showroom attempting to rid herself courteously of the inconsiderate customer who was staying well past closing time.

“No, dear,” Catherine said as she gently extracted the pencil from her student’s grasp. “You do not clutch it in your fist as though it were a weapon. You hold it thus, between your fingers.” She demonstrated.

Jemmy complained that the pencil wriggled like a worm.

“You must show it who is master. You are a great, growing boy and this is only a small pencil. Here, I’ll help you.” She inserted the instrument between his grubby fingers and guided them with her own. “There. That is ‘J.’“

“J,” the boy repeated, gazing soberly at the mark he’d must made.

“Isn’t that grand? I’ll warrant none of the other boys you know can do that.”

“No,” he agreed. “To ing’rant.”

Catherine stifled a smile. “You, on the other hand, are very clever. In just a few days you’ve made all the letters in the alphabet as far as ‘J.’ Do you realise that’s nearly halfway?”

Jemmy groaned. “More still? Ain’t ‘ere never no end to ‘em fings?”

“Those things
—and ‘ain’t is not a proper word. Sixteen more to go. Then,” she quickly added, noting the expression of profound discouragement upon his round features, “you will have enough letters to make every word you ever heard of—even your own name. By this time next week you’ll be writing your whole name all by yourself.”

“Show me wot it looks like,” Jemmy ordered, offering her the pencil.

Miss Pennyman agreed on condition he help her. Once more she placed the pencil between his fingers and guided them.

“Miss Pelliston, I presume?”

The “y” of “Jemmy” trailed off into a long crazy scrawl as Catherine dropped the child’s hand.

At the sound of the familiar voice all the muscles in her neck stiffened. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head in the direction of the voice. In the same stiffly painful way, she became aware of gleaming boots, light-coloured trousers, a darker coat, and the blinding contrast of white linen as her gaze travelled up from the floor to his face, to be pinioned by the deep piercing blue of his eyes.

Blue ... and angry. He had never seemed so tall and overpowering as he did now, his long, rugged form filling the narrow doorway.

Jemmy stared as well. As he took in his teacher’s shocked white face, he waxed indignant. “Here now,” he sharply informed the stranger, “you can’t bust in here.”

The stranger ignored him. “Miss Catherine Pelliston of Wilberstone, perhaps?”

Jemmy leapt from his chair to confront the aggravating visitor. “Din’t I jest tell you you wuzn’t allowed here? ‘At ain’t her name, neither, so you just be on yer way, sir, as you’s had too much to drink nor what’s good fer you.” Apparently unaware that he was addressing the stranger’s waistband, Jemmy endeavoured to turn the man around and push him on his way.

Lord Rand caught the child by the collar. “Settle down, boy,” he said. “I’ve business with this young lady.”

Jemmy did not settle down. He immediately began pounding the man with his fists and shouting threats, along with loud advice to Missus to call the Watch.

Lord Rand, whose short store of patience was quickly deserting him, gave the boy a light cuff on the shoulder and bade him be still. This adjuration proving ineffective, he picked the child up and slung him across his hip, in which position Jemmy, undaunted, flailed and kicked, mainly at empty air.

“Oh, do stop!” Catherine cried, rising from her chair. “Jemmy, you leave off that noise this instant and stop striking his lordship. And you, My Lord—how dare you bully
that
child!”

“The little beast is bullying me, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Nonetheless, Lord Rand released the boy, who ran back to shield his teacher. The urchin stood in front of her, scowling fearlessly at the giant. The teacher’s great hazel eyes flashed fire.

“Is this your latest protector, ma’am? If so, I’d advise you not to stand too close. I daresay the wretch has lice.”

In response, Miss Pelliston put her arm about the boy’s shoulder and drew him closer to her. “I suppose, My Lord, you are provoked with me,” she said stiffly. “I will not deny you may have reason. That is no excuse for picking on a helpless child.”

“He’s about as helpless as a rabid cur. Little beast hit me,” Lord Rand grumbled.

“He’ll do it agin if you don’t go away,” Jemmy retorted.

“Very well,” his lordship replied. “I do mean to go away— but not without your lady friend.”

At this Jemmy set up a screeching that brought Madame to the workroom door. “Heavens, what is the child howling about?” she cried. “Jemmy, you stop that racket this minute, do you hear? Whatever will his lordship think? And poor Miss Pennyman—Miss Pelliston, I mean—you dreadful boy. Isn’t she ill enough without your giving her the headache besides?”

Lord Rand moved aside to let the
modiste
enter the room.

“My dear,” said Madame, taking Catherine’s hand, “I had no notion. Such a shock it must be for you—but my poor brother had the same trouble. Knocked over by a farmer’s cart and when he came to he didn’t know who he was. Thought he was a farmer himself. It was two days before he came to his senses.”

“I beg your pardon, but I am in full possession of my wits,” said a baffled Catherine.

“Yes, dear, so he thought too. It’s the amnesia, you know. If I hadn’t been by to help him, he might have wandered off just as you did and none of us would ever have known what became of him.”

“Amnesia?” Catherine faintly repeated.

“Yes,” said the viscount as his face quickly assumed a mask of concern. “Apparently you tripped on the stairs the other morning and hit your head. Of course you don’t remember, Miss Pelliston,” he added, as she opened her mouth to contradict. “But I described to Madame the bandbox you’d packed with old clothes for the parish needy and she tells me you arrived carrying the very one.”

The dressmaker nodded her agreement.

“Evidently you got muddled in your brain, ma’am, and thought it was your own luggage. Naturally, one understands how your confused mind perceived it.”

Miss Pelliston’s enormous eyes opened wider at this arrant falsehood. “My mind was—is—not in the least confused—”

“There, there,” Madame comforted. “Just as my brother kept insisting. But his lordship is here to take you home now, and in a day or so you’ll be right as a trivet. I shall miss you terribly, though. I never did see such fine, neat stitches as you make, dear, and never wasting a scrap of fabric.”

Jemmy, who understood nothing but that his teacher was to be carried off by this evil giant, began objecting loudly. Catherine hastened to comfort him. She bent to embrace him and murmur soothing remarks, most to the effect that she would never desert him.

Jemmy was a child wise in the ways of the world. He knew that tall, fancy-dressed gentlemen always got exactly their way in that world, and most especially when they were addressed as “My Lord.” He refused to be consoled.

Catherine gazed up pleadingly at her erstwhile rescuer. “My Lord, I am sure there is some misunderstanding. You’ve confused me with someone else—”

“It’s you who’s confused. I’m only getting a headache is what. Drat it—can’t you stifle the little b—lad?”

“He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, please go away. Don’t you see?” she begged. “He needs me. Madame needs me as well, as she just said. Oh, do go away, please.”

The viscount, who’d expected to be greeted with every
possible expression of gratitude, was confounded. An hour earlier, Blackwood had found a pastry cook who had not only seen the young lady the valet described, but was in possession of a length of ribbon belonging to her. The cook having volunteered directions to Jemmy’s place of employment, Blackwood had hastened across the street to inform his master, who was questioning a chemist.

On the way to the dressmaker’s, Blackwood had tactfully reminded his impetuous employer of the need for discretion if the young lady was found. After all, hadn’t Lord Andover refused to call in Bow Street, fearing that a scandal would result? It was the valet who’d suggested the tale of amnesia.

Now there seemed to be prospects of precisely the to-do Lord Rand had promised to avoid. The boy’s shrieking was loud enough to raise the Watch, if not the dead, and Miss Pelliston had got that mutinous expression on her thin face. Even the seamstress was beginning to look doubtful.

The valet, who’d been waiting in the showroom, now appeared. “There seems to be a difficulty, My Lord,” he said in as low a voice as possible, given the noise the child was making.

“The brat’s taking fits, and so she won’t come,” was the frustrated response.

“Indeed. If you’ll permit me, My Lord?”

Lord Rand shrugged. Blackwood moved past him to approach Jemmy.

“Here, now, my lad. What’s all this fuss?”

Forgetting all Miz Kaffys lessons in grammar and elocution, Jemmy burst out with a stream of loud outrage and complaint in cant so thick that none of his listeners could comprehend a word he said. None, that is, but Blackwood.

“And is that what makes a great strong boy like yourself cry like a baby?”

“I ain’t no baby,” was the angry retort.

“In that case, perhaps you would express your objections calmly to his lordship—man to man, so to speak.”

Jemmy considered this while Catherine wiped his nose
with her handkerchief.